


Honeymooning

by Horribibble



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Fluff, Future Fic, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Semi-PWP, Texting, horrid dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles took a moment to gather his wits before looking down to examine the delicate bands glinting in the light of pre-dawn. </p>
<p>He texted back: Good news, dude. I think I found Isaac. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>In which Stiles Stilinski and Isaac Lahey have somehow managed to get married, and Isaac gives Stiles a very good reason to stay that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeymooning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambitioncutsusdown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I'm the kinda (that you wanna)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/863882) by [ambitioncutsusdown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/pseuds/ambitioncutsusdown). 



> When I started this, I intended it to be a cute, fluffy drabble. And then sex happened.  
> Damn it. 
> 
> I just really wanted to write Stisaac after reading "I'm the kinda (that you wanna)". I hope it pleases. ^^; Also, I'm sorry if the titles and summary suck. I'm not that attached to either.
> 
> Look me up on [tumblr](http://littleplasticmonster.tumblr.com/).

_Srsly dude. Where the hell were u? Isaac didn’t show and bonding time w/ Derek was super awkward._

Stiles watched the text blur in and out of focus as the fuzzed-up thickness of his eyeballs came back to functionality.

Yes.

Yes, he was looking at a text.

From Scott.

Scott was a person. An important person. His best friend—or,  at least, he _used_ to be before he started ditching him for pretty girls and werewolves and shit.

The last time he’d managed to corner Scott into playing some Call of Duty, Mrs. McCall had made a point of leaving Isaac in charge. And then he’d whooped both of their asses.

Isaac with his abandonment issues and his superior smirk and his stupid-blue eyes and his bike with a chain instead of an engine. It was a little unnerving, just watching the effect he had on people—especially Derek and Scott.

Stiles was pretty sure it had something to do with ‘sad puppy’, but he’d never say it out loud. Still, he sort of wished he could’ve been a fly on the wall at _that_ pack meeting. At least _then_ he wouldn’t be this sore.

He was slowly piecing together bits of last night when he felt the tightening over his hip, the warmth at his back. There was a soft snuffling noise, and a pair of long, muscular legs tangled with his, letting him leech their warmth.

Stiles took a moment to gather his wits before looking down to examine the delicate bands glinting in  the light of pre-dawn.

So there was that.

He froze up briefly as soft lips brushed against his naked shoulder before the sleepy mumbling resumed.

Of _course_ he’d be an adorable sleeper.

Resisting the urge to snort at the irony of _absolutely everything,_ Stiles pulled up the keyboard and tapped in his response.

 

 

 

_Good news dude  I think I found Isaac._

* * *

 

Isaac is, surprisingly, nowhere near as freaked out by all of this as Stiles is. In fact, he seems way more concerned that Stiles might cut and run.

They watch each other from opposite sides of the Ultimate Lovebirds Special, a meal chock full of protein and other dietary goodies vital to people preoccupied with fucking like bunnies, which, apparently, they were last night.

He must have eaten a **shitload** of oysters to be _this_ sore.

Joking aside, Stiles isn’t really sure what to do with the way Isaac is looking at him. Usually, the guy spends a pretty decent amount of time pointedly _not_ looking at him.

Then again, the average day-in-the-life doesn’t see him waking up as Stiles Stilahey or whatever the hell his name is now.

So there they are, the deep, soulful eyes that usually make Stiles feel both vaguely threatened and inexplicably sleepy, focused on him. Broadcasting something that feels a lot like _please don’t leave me, I’ll be good_.

Stiles is pretty sure it isn’t normal to wake up on your honeymoon and feel like the Kicker of a Thousand Puppies.

So he heaves a sigh and impales a bit of heart-shaped grapefruit, lifting it for Isaac to see. “Now that’s just tacky.”

He thinks that makes Isaac smile a little, maybe, but it could be a kind of awkward muscle spasm.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The way the early morning sunlight plays off of Isaac’s skin and hair is just seven different kinds of unfair.

At his morning best, Stiles supposes he can be considered faintly cherubic, but Isaac is like a full-blown portrait of _Eros in Repose_. Even sober and in control of his impulses, Stiles feels like messing up those perfect curls wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

He watches, tongue between his teeth, as dust motes settle around Isaac’s sheet-clad form, and shuffles awkwardly in the oversized hotel bathrobe Isaac snagged from the closet.

He feels small and outmatched and completely lost as for where to start, but when he looks into Isaac’s eyes again he realizes that that makes two of them.

 

 

* * *

 

More than once, Stiles has been afraid of Isaac—of all that he is, all that he can take away, all that he can do.

Isaac could snap Stiles like a twig, but he’s scared of him, too.

 

 

* * *

 

“I don’t want an annulment.” Isaac says softly.

Stiles shakes his head, “You don’t even **_like_** me.”

This time, Isaac smiles. “Let me show you.”

 

* * *

 

The press of Isaac’s wedding band is smooth and warm against Stiles’ skin as he slips the robe off of one shoulder. His pale skin breaks out in gooseflesh in the room’s AC, but the hot moisture of Isaac’s breath chases it away. Stiles catches himself shaking, and he can’t say exactly why.

Soft lips migrate from his shoulder, down his collarbone and to the sensitive skin of his chest. He groans as warm breath teases his nipple, and a calloused thumb brushes at a nearby mole.

“Love them,” Isaac mumbles, “like somebody dripped chocolate all over you.”

Stiles distantly remembers something similar being said last night—a suggestion when Isaac felt brave. He remembers a lot of laughter and promises before he pulled Isaac in to fuck him _harder._

This time, he takes a moment to cradle Isaac’s face in his hands, to tilt his head—his _mouth_ —so that Stiles can reach in and taste him at his leisure. Chocolate and oranges and something like cinnamon chase off the bitter tang of grapefruit, and their tongues are sliding together.

It’s wet and hot, but not as messy as it was the night before. They take their time, learning each other slowly, hips rolling in. Isaac lifts him just enough to slide underneath and cradle him. Stiles grinds down against him like the merciless little shit he is.

He keens softly, petering into a whine, and Stiles swallows it. He gasps, “ _Show_ me. Fuck, Isaac— _show_ me.”

He thinks he might be hyperventilating a little when Isaac slips one hand beneath the robe to toy with Stiles’ aching dick, the other reaching to tease his exposed nipple.

Isaac nudges at his other shoulder, and the robe slides down by his elbows, leaving his chest completely bare. Stiles makes a muzzy, confused noise that turns into a shout when Isaac first licks, then envelops the bit of flesh.

“ _Oh,”_ He groans, “No. Fuck, Isaac, I—I want—” He licks his lips, unable to express exactly what it is he wants. Isaac is doing an excellent job of ripping him apart. His body is filled with a hot press for _harder faster more fuck more_. His skin is searing and his cock is definitely starting to leak, but his mouth is _lonely._

“You want…?” The slick of Isaac’s mouth is gone for barely a second before resuming its work, and Stiles tangles his fingers in that perfect hair.

“ _Kiss_.” Stiles breathes, and he can feels the thrill of teeth against tender flesh, the feather-needles in his spine as Isaac _grins._

Stiles bucks against Isaac’s grip as he crushes their lips back together—like he has something to prove. Isaac squeezes him just enough to hurt, jacks him a few more times before he takes his hands away, placing them tentatively on Stiles’ hips.

Stiles feels a ripping in his chest and in his head, as if he might have to cry. He grins into Isaac harder, freeing a hand from the soft blonde curls to tear the sheet away and palm his dick.

“Thought you were gonna show me.” He rasps, bringing his hand up to grip Isaac’s jaw, forcing his mouth open wide. He angles them both to get more of what he wants, near to the point of swallowing Isaac’s _tongue._

He can feel the wolf beneath him whining in his _throat_ as their dicks slide against each other.

Then Isaac— _damn Isaac_ —pulls away and leaves him empty again. Running on some kind of instinct, Stiles tries to follow, simpering softly, but then he feels fingers press his lips, salty with pre-cum—whose, he can’t tell.

He has the presence of mind to jerk his head _no_.

“Lube.” He mumbles. He may not have been sober enough to remember much of last night, but he can _feel_ the thick weight of Isaac’s dick pressing his own. Spit and good intentions aren’t gonna cut it.

Isaac chuckles, smirking at him with predatory gold lighting up his eyes, “Got it right here. Just trust me.”

Stiles obliges, making a show of blowing Isaac’s fingers until the blonde’s had enough. One spit-slick hand finds its way back to his cock as the other coats his hole, stretching the still-tender muscles into a pleasant sting.

He nearly _howls_ when Isaac’s clever fingers catch and toy with his slit. Sharp teeth tease the skin of his neck, his throat until he’s reduced to broken sobbing. He peppers whatever skin he can reach with desperate kisses as Isaac plays his strings with agile fingers.

He rubs against him, soft and pliant and _wet_ , but it makes no difference.

“Just a little more,” Isaac says, “I’m gonna fill you up and fuck you wide open. See you spread for me. Do you want that?”

And fuck if that last thing he ever expected from Isaac Lahey was dirty talk. Still, he can’t help it.

He _wants_.

“No.” He whispers, near completely wrecked, “Wanna ride you. Wanna see you—f- _fuck!_ See you fall apart.”

It’s Isaac’s turn to keen and buck against him, rushing to adapt and accommodate this new fantasy. He moves back against the pillows, pulling Stiles with him and helping him into position. He straddles Isaac, looking down, taking in the full picture. The mussed hair, the needy blue eyes, the swollen mouth. He’s _gone._

The sensation of sinking onto Isaac’s cock is anything but indescribable. It’s _everything_. A deep, thorough burning in his ass and his dick.. A swelling in his belly that he swears he can **_see_** through the skin. Wondering, he runs his fingers over his stomach, and Isaac _groans._

Stiles’ eyes dart down, taking in the sharpness of his not-quite-claws digging at his hips and drawing scant rivulets of blood. He watches the muscles flex as the wolf tries to control his grip, to take in every sensation without giving in.

“Isaac. Yes, yes, yes. Oh, _G-d_.”

Isaac dares a smile, one hand trailing upward to tease a sensitive nipple. His eyes are bright and full of mischief.

And with a helpless roll of his hips, Stiles realizes that he’s filthy hot and full of **_Isaac_**.

It’s not enough to make him come, not yet, but when Isaac renews his grip and bites down on his lower lip before fucking up into him, well… There’s no one around to see him cry except his shiny new husband, and Isaac won’t be saying _anything_ for a while.

 

* * *

 

 

After the second orgasm or so, neither one of them has gone soft. Slick with sweat and cum and tiring in the face of werewolf stamina, Stiles catches himself panting as he tugs at Isaac’s shoulder.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon.”

And Isaac listens, abs flexing as he pulls himself up, chest to chest with his lover. His rhythm doesn’t skip a beat, steady and just forceful enough to drive them both wild.

With a strange gentleness, he pulls Stiles close, stroking the broad expanse of his back as their dicks rub up against each other again. The pleasure seems secondary.

“Safe,” He hums, “Warm.”

Stiles feels something tighten in his chest because he knows—he _knows_ —that it’s not the sex, and before he can think to notice it, there’s the tightness in his belly, too, and he cums between them.

His dick is sensitive almost to the point of soreness trapped between their bellies, but he can’t pull away— _won’t_ pull away—not with Isaac holding him like this. Not until he can feel the other boy spend hot and wet inside him.

“I’ve got you.” He sighs, rubbing between Isaac’s shoulder blades, “So good. Come on, baby.”

Isaac gives a strangled cry and shudders against him. Gently, Stiles rocks against him, winding down as they ride out the sensations together.

 

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know what the hell they put in that grapefruit, but it definitely works.”

Several minutes and a careful clean-up job later, Stiles is reacclimating himself to being the little spoon and Isaac is indulging his idle babble. He’ll have to put up with it a while longer, it looks like, because Stiles doesn’t feel like there’s any big rush to get divorced.

And then he notices the message alert on his phone.

He’s missed eleven messages from Scott.

_U did? Dude, where was he?_

_And where were u?_

_Are u ok? Ur super quiet. It’s freaky._

_Stiles?_

_Why aren’t u at home?_

_Where did u find Isaac?_

_Where are u guys?_

_Stiles? Not funny!_

_I’m gonna have to get Derek._

_Plz don’t make me get Derek._

_Stiles!_

“Huh? What’s it?” Isaac hums, grasping for the screen. Stiles brings it closer so he can see the history.

“Just Scott. Having a nervous breakdown.”

Isaac nuzzles against his shoulder and Stiles turns his head, sees the grin he’s trying to hide. “Spill.”

“Derek’s going to have an aneurysm.” Isaac snickers, showing considerably less care for his pseudo-guardian than Stiles expected.

He’s quiet for a moment before the realization hits, and then he’s grinning like a madman. “Does this make me ‘Mrs.Lahey’?! Can we see what happens when he hears you _call me_ ‘Mrs.Lahey’?!”

“You’re sick.”

“And you married me. You are hereby cordially invited to the Call of Duty marathon of Mr. and Mrs. Isaac G. Stilinski-Lahey.”

“Are you _ever_ gonna tell me your name?”

“Maybe.” Stiles lilts, thumbing his reply before setting the phone aside and rolling to face Isaac. His cheeks are rosy and he’s got that look Stiles’ dad gets sometimes, like, _boy, you are one hell of a puzzle._

Stiles grins, “But only if I get to be on your team. Spousal privilege means no more kicking my ass at Call of Duty.”

Isaac laughs into his mouth.

 

 

_In Vegas. Brb honeymoon._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write smut that often. I am so sorry if I broke anyone.
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
